


A Certain Disregard For The Rules

by lunaerum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite & Recharacterization, Family Fluff, Gen, Good Dumbledore, Non-Explicit Canonical Child Abuse and Neglect (From the Dursleys), Potions Genius Harry, Pureblood Society, Redeemed Severus Snape, Slytherin Harry, Smart Harry, Wizarding Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-04 09:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaerum/pseuds/lunaerum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living with the Dursleys for ten years had taught Harry many things. First and foremost, it taught him how to disobey authority in such a way that it looked, at first glance, like obedience. Second, it taught him to <i>survive</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life with the Dursleys

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so first of all, warning for child abuse! No more than canon and nothing is graphic, but it is there.
> 
> And I really want to say that this won't be Dark!Harry. I know it may seem a bit iffy at the end, but he's not dark in this fic (though I love Dark!Harry fics). He's a bit more jaded than canon, but he has that same big heart (maybe even bigger in this fic) and he'll still be recognizable as Harry, though this is a very AU version of him.
> 
> I purposefully wrote this chapter to mirror the second chapter of Philosopher's Stone, but though it may seem a bit familiar, it's still the start of a very canon divergent AU. Also, this fic will likely have a fair amount of humor, though that's not really obvious from this first chapter.
> 
> I'm for a few boys to have cute baby crushes on Harry (like Draco) while Harry himself remains oblivious - tell me in a review who you'd like to see crushing on Harry!
> 
> Briefly, the end of the chapter touches on animal abuse, though it's not by Harry and the animal is okay!

Harry wakes as he always does – to the sound of Aunt Petunia knocking on his cupboard door, telling him rather unkindly to get up and cook breakfast. Today, however, there's an undercurrent of urgency in the way that Aunt Petunia raps on the cupboard with bony knuckles.

"Up," She says through the door, tapping away – ensuring that he wouldn't be able to sleep through the noise. Her tone is less cruel and more anxious, though Harry knows that if he were to make her wait, there would be hell to pay.

(Vernon screams. Harry learned this early in life. Vernon is also very predictable – he may shove Harry around or push him into his cupboard, but the most he'll do is give Harry some bruises or withhold food from him for a day.

Petunia is … different. She hates Harry just as much as Vernon, but has a different way of showing it – through callous cruelty and a complete disregard for Harry's emotional or physical wellbeing. She'll shave his hair or make him work on the garden in sweltering heat for the whole day without water just because she can. If Harry crosses her (and he has in the past, often working out the boundaries of what exactly he could get away with without punishment) she'll punish him in a way that is simultaneously cruel and inventive.

She's  _terrifying_.

And it isn't as if he's not scared of Vernon as well. Harry hides under a façade of sarcasm and wit, but he's quite terrified of both his aunt and uncle. The fear isn't always there and sometimes he's able to pretend his family doesn't hate him, but then he'll push Petunia too far or cross Vernon on a bad day and visceral, heart-stopping fear will claw its way up his throat at the sight of Petunia's hard stare or Vernon's reddening face. He likes to pretend he's not afraid, because he knows family shouldn't be afraid of family, but he always,  _always_ , flinches when Vernon raises his hand, or Petunia turns to him with cruel eyes and a half-hidden snarl.)

After dressing for the day (and purposefully leaving off one sock and not bothering with his hair), Harry ambles out of his cupboard, not even with the luxury of still being half-asleep. Some stupid part of him always panics when Petunia knocks on his door, so every morning he goes from being dead asleep to wide awake within moments of her knocking, with his heart in his throat and beating so fast he feels as if he'll pass out.

Aunt Petunia doesn't even snap at Harry when she sees him, as is the norm for them in the mornings. He's learned that appearing before his aunt disheveled, with his hair a disaster and only one sock on, is enough to make her irritated and angry, but not enough to incur her wrath – so naturally, he does it every day. It takes a surprising amount of self-control not to laugh in Aunt Petunia's face when she looks so offended by his hair, but it's always worth it to see how worked up she gets.

Today however, Petunia's eyes slide right over him as she ushers him into the kitchen and upon seeing the table, he immediately understands why. The table, which is fairly large and wide, is covered from end to end in immaculately wrapped presents. Only two aren't wrapped, and are placed near the table – Dudley's new television and racing bike.

(Almost bitterly, Harry imagines it buckling under the weight of Dudley's many, many presents and all of them somehow breaking. Harry pushes aside the emotion before Petunia can see because if she were, it'd mean that her and Vernon and this whole rotten family would win. Win  _what_ , Harry doesn't know – but he refuses to show displeasure at their treatment of him.

He refuses to let them know that they've gotten to him.)

It's Dudley's birthday.

Harry doesn't know how he managed to forget – Dudley's been going on and on about it for the past three months, about what kind of presents he wants, while Petunia and Vernon listened indulgently to him. Dudley going between sweetening his voice to appeal to his mother and throwing a tantrum when he felt he wasn't getting his way had been amusing, but ultimately irritating. Over the past three months, Harry has rolled his eyes so much it's a wonder they haven't fallen out of his head.

"You'll tend to the bacon," Petunia says, not even bothering to disguise her demand as a request. "Don't you burn it – I want everything to be perfect for Dudley's birthday."

Harry almost fails to disguise his scoff as a coughing fit.  _Him_ , burn  _food_? Petunia should know he at least has more self-preservation than that. He's only done it once in his life, but once is enough to know that he shouldn't ever do it again if he wanted to live to see twenty. He had been eight, and he was still too short to cook like Petunia wanted him too, but she made him do so anyway. Petulantly, no –  _stupidly_ – he had let the eggs and bacon burn just a little bit – not charred, but just enough so Vernon and Dudley would be able to taste it.

Even two years later, Harry remembers Petunia's exact expression when she saw what he'd done.

Nostrils flaring, back tense but straight, and with eyes so cold and hard they felt like knives were stabbing him in the stomach when she turned to look at him. She was gripping the handle to the pan tight and for a few terrifying minutes, Harry was scared she'd whack him with it.

(She didn't, but she made Harry start over while she watched over his shoulder and she didn't let him eat for two days.)

Instead of replying, Harry clears his throat and makes his way around his aunt to grab a pan and the bacon from the fridge. He carefully begins to cook, well aware that if he were to burn this, Petunia would probably make him go without food for a month, but he's so used to cooking that he's able to cook the bacon perfectly without too much thinking. Still, cooking for Vernon and Dudley is a bit like playing Russian roulette – no matter how well he cooks something, if either of them were to complain that they didn't like how it tasted, Petunia would punish him.

_Harshly_.

And rather than waiting for Petunia to keep bossing him around as she did almost every day, after Harry's done with the last of the bacon and places it on top of the small mountain of pork, he starts on the eggs immediately, not wanting to hear Aunt Petunia's shrill voice ordering him about.

He does those in batches too – frying some, scrambling others, because Vernon and Dudley can't ever decide how they want their eggs and only agree that they want a lot of them.

Harry has scrambled only about a dozen eggs when Vernon comes thundering down the stairs, absolutely incapable of walking anywhere quietly. Upon seeing Harry, his moustache quivers and his face turns a ruddy, ugly red – obviously displeased with Harry's disheveled appearance, as he is every day.

"Good morning, Uncle Vernon," Harry says sweetly, because Harry being nice always makes Uncle Vernon's face purple and the best revenge is the revenge that doesn't come back to bite him in the behind.

Uncle Vernon turns redder, Harry's greeting only further inciting what Vernon surely deems as righteous anger. "Brush your hair!" Vernon, quite predictably, snarls in reply.

Harry turns back to the eggs on the stove rather than respond, sweet expression dropping from his face and he rolls his eyes as he continues to work on breakfast for Vernon and Dudley. And because he really does like living, he makes sure that Petunia – who is flitting around the table and checking on all of the presents to make sure she hasn't missed anything and that they really  _are_  impeccably wrapped – and Vernon, who has now sat down at his usually spot at the table, can't see him so blatantly disrespect his uncle before he does so.

Dudley comes down just as Harry is finishing frying the last of the eggs they have in the house, just as loud and obnoxious as his father. He sits in his usual place, but unlike his father, ignores Harry entirely, reaching for bacon in one hand and one of his presents in another.

Harry doesn't mind being ignored. In fact, he prefers it. He'd rather be ignored by Dudley than be bullied by him. Wrapping useless glasses in Scotch tape just so he would be able to see blurry shapes that only  _just_ sharpened when he squinted every time Dudley decided that punching Harry would be fun was exhausting in about forty different ways.

Thankfully, Dudley has grown out of that immaturity – no longer deeming it fun to bully Harry, or any of the other neighborhood kids.

(When Harry was nine, he saw Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, hurting one of Mrs. Figg's outside cats.

Though Harry wasn't the bad, violent child that Vernon and Petunia tried to paint him as, he had gained somewhat of a reputation in the neighborhood and at his school.

He was stubborn, inquisitive, and questioned rules before following them. He had his own idea of right and wrong and if the rules didn't fit that, then he didn't follow them. At nine years old, with his baby face and bright eyes, whether this trait endeared himself to the neighborhood folk or angered them was almost a fifty-fifty toss-up.

Therefore, when Harry saw Piers throwing rocks at Cinder – Mrs. Figg's favorite outside cat – Harry couldn't very well keep walking and ignore what was happening. So he did the only logical thing.

He had tackled Piers.

They fought for no more than probably five minutes. Harry had been lucky that it had been Piers he tackled and not his cousin, because Piers had been almost as scrawny as Harry, but not as strong – Harry supposed that he had Petunia to thank for that, as she made him garden and do all of the physical labor around the house that he was physically able to. Harry had almost managed to tear the rock out of Piers' hand when he had heard a familiar voice behind him, making the both of them freeze.

"Boys – oh boys, what are you doing – oh, my –  _Cinder_ , oh – "

It was Mrs. Figg. At first, she had been drawn by the sound of Piers and Harry fighting, but as she had gotten closer, she'd seen the prone form of her cat, and unsurprisingly, she panicked.

Harry had immediately detached himself from Piers at the sound of her voice. "Mrs. Figg?" Harry had no small amount of practice keeping a blank face in the face of a hysterical adult – though he was usually doing so in front of his Aunt, not a woman he sort of liked, even if she _was_  boring and had a  _million_ cats.

There was no reply from Mrs. Figg at first. Instead, she had dropped to her knees beside her cat, unbridled horror writ across her face. "What … what happened?"

Harry's heart had begun beating faster at the question. If he told the truth, Mrs. Figg was likely to take it up with Piers' parents, who would in turn take it up with the Dursleys after punishing their son. Harry could only imagine Petunia's reaction to  _that_.

So. Harry had to lie.

And lie he did.

"Is … is that Cinder? I – we didn't see him. Is he okay?" Harry had felt guilty for faking innocence and lying to the one adult that actually seemed to care about him, but Mrs. Figg wouldn't have understood why she couldn't tell Piers' parents about the incident and Cinder was still breathing so he was alive and Petunia would  _kill_ him if he embarrassed her and got Dudley's best friend's parents mad at their family. "Piers said something mean about my hair and it just made me so mad and I tackled him and – we didn't  _hurt_  Cinder, did we?"

Standing right next to him, Piers gave him a confused look but Harry glared at him before he could voice that confusion. Luckily, that exchange had taken place before Mrs. Figg had looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. "No –" she had sniffled, thankfully not catching onto Harry's lies. "No, I don't think you did. If … if you will excuse me, I think I … I need to take Cinder to the veterinarian." She had scooped Cinder into her arms tenderly and Harry remembers how seeing blood crusted onto the belly of the old cat first made guilt tear his insides up into sixty million pieces, but then how cold, icy fury had flushed the guilt away – how his heartbeat had finally,  _finally_  calmed in the face of his anger.

Mrs. Figg had taken her time rising from the ground and once she had been out of earshot, Harry had turned to Piers, not bothering to hide his rage like he so often had to do in the Dursleys home. This had noticeably shaken Piers, who upon seeing his expression, paled considerably, though Harry didn't notice.

"Why'd … why did you cover for me?" Piers had asked a few minutes after Mrs. Figg had gone.

"I didn't." Harry had said, clipped and still very angry. Harry had to lie to the one adult on the entire planet who didn't totally hate him and the guilt would be (and was) very hard to bare, once the anger died down. Piers had  _hurt_  that cat for no reason, just like Dudley and Piers hurt Harry, for no reason, just because they could. Just like Vernon and Petunia hurt him, for no reason, just because they could. At that moment, an idea had begun to bloom, unfurling almost faster than Harry had been able to make sense of it. It wasn't the most ethical idea, but Harry had little care for ethics when no one else did. What was right might also be underhanded and sneaky – Harry had learned that early on in life.

"I didn't do it for you," Harry had continued. "I did it for me. You're going to convince Dudley not to bully me or anyone else anymore. Or I'll tell Mrs. Figg what really happened."

Piers had looked indignant – like he was about to say something, possibly something that would make Harry lose his nerve, so Harry had cut him off coldly, harshly. "No. Shut up – Mrs. Figg believes me, no matter what I say. She's not like the Dursleys. You're going to convince Dudley to stop bullying people. Or I'll tell her what really happened."

And to Piers, it must have looked like the truth, because she hadn't questioned Harry's rather obvious lie, though that was more because she was likely in shock because of her cat's injuries than because of her affection for Harry.

"I'll give you a week." Harry had said, keeping his eyes hard and expression neutral. Internally, he's worried that Piers will see through his lies and call him out on it, but he forces those thoughts aside to continue. "I'll give you a week to get Dudley to stop bullying me and everyone else or I'll tell Mrs. Figg what really happened and you'll be grounded for the entire summer because I know your parents aren't happy about how much trouble you and Dudley keep getting into." He had said this in a rush, though Piers didn't notice, progressively getting paler and paler, likely imagining his mother's wrath at him having got in trouble again. He had waited for a moment for his words – and veiled threat – to sink in, before turning and slowly walking away. As he walked to the park, which was his initial destination, some small part of him was waiting for Piers to catch on to how he wasn't as self-assured as he appeared, but Piers didn't.

Lucky for him, Piers isn't – wasn't, has never been – all that bright.

It had taken two days for Piers to reform Dudley.

And Dudley has ignored Harry ever since.)


	2. My Best Friend, The Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Dudley's birthday and Harry's left behind. That's alright, because he didn't want to go to with the Dursleys anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday!!! 
> 
> I should've had this chapter out earlier, but I put it off and I really wanted to post today as a gift from me to all of the people that read my fics. Hope you guys like it!
> 
> This does mirror a lot of what happens in canon early on, but I didn't want to write out what's in the book, so dialogue isn't copied word for word. Again, just a warning for child abuse! Nothing is graphic, but it is there.

Harry has a lot of practice being invisible.

Most of the time, he doesn't even have to do anything. Vernon and Petunia would rather go to Mars than admit he exists and now that Dudley doesn't bully him, he can't even be bothered to glance at Harry.

Sometimes, when Petunia is mad or Vernon comes home with his face red and shaking with rage, Harry'll make himself smaller. He'll go quiet and still. If he's good enough, their eyes will slide right over him and they'll ignore Harry until they remember he's alive. If he's not –

(Eight years old is the year that Harry decides to quietly – and sometimes, _not_  so quietly – subvert the Dursleys' authority. At this point, he's lived with them long enough that he's observed the way Petunia or Vernon will react to certain situations.

One day, he takes it too far.

He's already determined that Petunia could care less if he's moody or sarcastic, as long as he pretends to respect her. She doesn't care how he looks, as long as it's not too bad and doesn't incur the gossip of the neighbors.

Vernon doesn't notice Harry's attitude if it's not terribly overt, but Harry always has to be careful what he says to his Uncle, because Petunia's  _smart_  and she'll catch on quicker than Vernon ever will.

Sometimes Harry imagines screaming at Vernon the way Vernon screams at him or ripping out Petunia's flowers and setting them on fire, but Harry doesn't exactly fancy spending the rest of his life in his cupboard, and besides, he'd _never_  wants to stoop to their level.

Still, Harry takes his petty revenge where he can. He justifies it to himself quite simply. While he'll never become like Vernon or Petunia and hurt someone just to hurt them, rebelling against the Dursleys is one of the only things that keeps him going on a day-to-day basis. Living with them is emotionally and physically exhausting. He's not allowed to watch the telly and he can't even  _look_  at Dudley's toys without Petunia snapping, so pushing at Vernon or Petunia is quite literally his only entertainment, as dangerous as it is.

Harry goes about it very carefully, mentally cataloging what sort of behavior will get him punished and what won't. He pushes and pushes until he can almost definitively map out what will be accepted – even if it's with a little grumbling – and what won't.

Eight years old is the year that Harry is almost constantly in his cupboard, but it's worth it – because Harry's not five years old anymore and he's long lost hope that any relative will come and save him, and it's been almost two years since he resigned himself to living the rest of his life, until they can legally kick him out mind, with the Dursleys.

And if he's going to do that, he needs to know their boundaries.

Eight years old is when Harry only  _barely_ tempers his sarcasm and his belligerence. For the most part, Vernon and Petunia just ignore him as they always do. They hate him, and while they can be sadistic and cruel, nothing would make them happier if Harry didn't exist. Often they pretend he doesn't.

Unless he messes up really bad.

It's something he says to Vernon that sends him to his cupboard for a week, because Harry is always careful with dealing with Petunia, but with Vernon, Harry lets some of that control slip, because Vernon never, ever catches onto Harry's sarcasm or the subtleties of his rebellion. He honestly can't even recall what he'd said, only that it was scathing and quiet and not meant to be heard at all. It had made Vernon go red, Petunia press her lips into a tight, unhappy line, and it made Harry's heart stop beating in his chest.

Vernon had been the one to shove Harry in his cupboard, snarling, gripping his upper-arm tightly and making a production out of the whole thing. He didn't waste time in dragging Harry to his cupboard because Harry had learned Vernon  _hated_  touching him and didn't ever do it unless he had to, but he was yelling the entire time and continued to scream long after he'd locked the cupboard door.

In all honesty, Harry didn't mind the solitude, the darkness, or the spiders. On the contrary, he loved the time alone – his time in his cupboard was the only time he ever got to be alone and the only time he ever got to pretend he had a loving family on the other side of the door. The darkness wasn't ever an issue for him. Harry had never, ever been afraid of the dark. Complete and total darkness meant he was in his cupboard, which then of course meant he was safe from his Aunt, his Uncle, and his cousin. The spiders were annoying, but Harry didn't ever kill them, and after a while they had learned to stay off of his cot and they ate all the other annoying bugs that made their way into his cupboard, so Harry figured they were allies of sorts.

The loneliness, the darkness, the spiders had never bothered him – no, it was the irrational guilt that tore him up every time. Harry never understood it, but he always, always felt so guilty after making Petunia or Vernon mad enough to send him to his cupboard. It was so irritating, because the guilt ate up at him and it made him cry and always made him wonder that maybe if he had just been a good boy and didn't antagonize Vernon or Petunia, then maybe they could love him and treat him like they did Dudley.

It was always in the days after being let out of his cupboard that he realized that his guilt was such a ridiculous, stupid thing – that the Dursleys hated him and deserved whatever hellish behavior Harry gave to them and that even if he'd acted like an angel, they would still despise him.

Harry would know.

He'd tried acting like an angel for a good long while.

It got him nothing but heartbreak.)

If he's not – then he'd often get sent to his cupboard.

And it was often for no reason than he was standing in their line of sight, but it still  _sucked_ , because there was quite a difference than going to his cupboard at the end of a long day of chores and being sent there as punishment. Though Harry  _often_  pushed the limits of the Dursley's authority and  _often_  got sent to his cupboard as punishment, he never did like how they managed to turn his only safe haven against him by turning his cupboard into a jail.

So when Petunia's expression gets pinched and she turns to Vernon and says, "Mrs. Figg can't take him. Broke her leg." Harry makes himself small and chews slowly on the leftover  _scraps_  Petunia had given him oh-so-magnanimously from his spot just inside the kitchen.

It's very easy to do because Harry had frozen at that sentence and something inside him had gone empty when Petunia said Mrs. Figg was hurt. Mrs. Figg was the only person in the entire world that cared for Harry and doted on him and didn't make him feel like he was a failure or a freak. She was the most amazing woman Harry had ever, ever met – even if she was a bit boring – and if she had injured or something happened to her, Harry would be alone in the world and he'd miss her every day of his life, probably. But as much as he'd like to go over to her house and make sure her and all her cats are okay, he _can't_  and he can't afford to not hear this conversation, so he blinks away those thoughts and scoots a little bit closer to the dining room so he can see and hear Petunia and Vernon better.

(Harry was never allowed to eat at the table. Harry always tells himself that he doesn't even  _want_  to, but he can never quite convince himself that's the truth.)

He doesn't open his mouth to speak, but instead watches them out of the corner of his eyes and acts like he can't hear them.

"What about your friend, the one – "

"She's on vacation." Petunia says, expression turning sourer as the minutes pass. Vernon's good humor evaporates at her response. Dudley looks like he's on the verge of a tantrum.

"Well, I'm not taking him, Tuney. I'm not. I won't have your sister's son running Dudley's birthday." Vernon replies, forehead turning red. A bit of egg that has stuck itself in Vernon's beard wobbles in the face of his anger.

Harry rolls his eyes and bites back the reply that he'd never, _ever_  want to spend more time than necessary with his family.

"And you think I'd want him to come, do you?" Petunia says sharply, placing her fork back down on the table with a practiced daintiness that never fails to impress guests when they have them over.

Vernon deflates at her reply and his relief that he's not alone in the hate of their nephew almost hurts Harry.

 _Almost_.

"Well, I  _don't_  want him to  _come!_  He'll  _ruin_  everything!" Dudley screeches, swiping one of his more expensive gifts to the ground with a pass of his large arm.

And that would get Harry  _killed_ , but of course Petunia only opens her mouth to promise Dudley that they won't take Harry along in the most sickening baby voice Harry's ever heard in his life. And while Vernon doesn't break out the unintelligible promises, his response is just as bad.

Because he calls for Harry.

" _Boy!_ "

Harry walks into the dining room as slowly as he can, hands clasped in front of him and eyes dead. He can't even muster up the effort for a smile. "Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

But it's not Vernon who replies. "I'm going to give you a list of chores to do outside that I expect to be done by the time we get back." Petunia says. "And don't you try to get into the house either – I'll be locking the door behind us."

Harry doesn't reply, but Petunia doesn't ever expect a reply. She's not like Vernon that way, she doesn't need verbal verification that he's going to do what she tells him to do, because if he doesn't, she'll just punish him.

Piers and Piers' mom ring the doorbell at that moment, and Harry notes sardonically that she sounds much happier than she did a year ago – likely because Piers had stopped getting into the trouble with Dudley right around this time last year. Harry makes himself sparse before Petunia can get back to the dining room with Dudley's best friend and his mom, because Petunia never likes when company spots him and she's always a little less cruel when he can anticipate her thoughts before she has them.

Outside of the kitchen, Harry can hear Piers' mom and Petunia start passive aggressively bragging about their sons, so Harry tunes them out, tamps down the instinctual hurt that flares up whenever he's reminded that the Dursleys hate him, breathes deep – and exhales. He stares at the dirty countertops before sighing and rolling up his sleeves. There's really no time for his ridiculous emotions.

There's work to be done.

* * *

It's hot outside.

More than that, it's hot and it's humid, which is even  _worse_ because it makes the back of his baggy shirt – Dudley's hand-me-downs – stick to his back and chest and his feet sweat in the confines of his socks. He's thirsty too and very tempted to drink some of the water Petunia had oh-so-kindly left for him, but he knows he really should ration it, and so goes without.

(It was just a glass of water, filled almost to the top. It had gone warm now, but it was better than nothing, especially since Petunia hadn't used the smallest cup they owned. This was his reward for not showing his face while Piers' mom was around.)

He'd feigned productivity for the first fifteen minutes after he'd been sent outside. It took only five minutes for the Dursleys to leave, but Harry was convinced they'd return within minutes of leaving because they'd forgotten something, and Harry needed to look like he was doing something if they came back so soon after leaving. When they don't, he takes a good, long break and sips at his water while he eyes the list Petunia had left him.

There were only three things on the list, but they each required a good hour of work to do them to Petunia's satisfaction. Number one was tend to the garden.

Petunia's pride and joy was that garden and sometimes she was the one out messing with the plants, but most often it was Harry. Not only did he have to weed the garden, water all the plants, but he had to ensure that every single flower was looking its best before moving onto the next one. Petunia's vanity required that he smooth out petals, rearrange flowers so they were completely upright and not even the slightest bit lopsided, and basically make it seem as if the garden had been taken out of a photograph of a magazine. That alone took Harry upwards of forty five minutes to do, which is why he dreaded doing it. Who cared what a bunch of flowers looked like? They were  _flowers_!

But Petunia cared.

So he did as she asked with little complaint because he'd been on the receiving end of her wrath, and it was never the cut-and-dry type of punishment Vernon doled out.

(Petunia has never, not once, pushed Harry into his cupboard. She's never protested when Vernon does it, but it's just not her preferred punishment.

She likes to take Harry's food away or make him go without water and then still force him to complete all of his chores, only conceding when it truly looked as if Harry's about to pass out before giving him bread or cheese or something.

Harry hates when he gets Petunia mad, because the hunger saps all of his energy. He can't even stew in his anger because it takes all of his strength to keep going and do all of his chores, because if he doesn't, Petunia'll just add another day onto his punishment. The world turns gray around the edges and he doesn't even feel like himself and he  _hates_  it.

The hunger is almost _, almost_  worse than the guilt.)

Number two on the list was mowing the grass. Fairly easy to do, especially once he remembered that Vernon always wanted the grass to be cut in neat lines. Vernon always was easier to please than his wife. Number three is pulling all of the weeds in the yard and especially near the sidewalk, which was Vernon's request. He insists it makes the yard look neater and Harry can't quite disagree, though he really dislikes doing it, because it takes such a long time. Petunia can always tell when he skips this and just mows the yard, so he always has to painstakingly inspect every centimeter of the Dursleys yard to pull weeds before mowing.

It's  _such_  a pain and Harry  _hates_  doing it, but he doesn't really have much choice, so he might as well start as soon as possible, so he can get  _done_  as soon as possible.

He starts with the garden, because that's first on the list and also the thing Petunia is going to scrutinize the most when she gets back, and that'll take the longest out of the three. Instead of sighing, Harry allows himself one gulp of his water before rolling his sleeves up ever higher – on Dudley, this shirt didn't even come to his elbows, but on Harry, it comes to his forearm, which is the biggest pain in only having hand-me-down clothing because nothing ever  _fits_  – and plopping down onto the ground to start watering the plants.

It's when he's finished weeding most of the garden that Cinder decides to show up. The huge, chubby cat saunters into the Dursleys' yard slowly, long fur all fluffy and shiny. He looks like a tiny lion. Once the cat spots Harry, he makes a beeline for the boy and greets Harry with a purr and a nuzzle that nearly knocks Harry over.

(After the whole fiasco with Piers last year, Cinder became oddly attached to Harry. Harry can't really understand it because he wasn't even able to save Cinder from being hurt by Piers and he certainly wasn't deserving of any affection the old, fat cat gave him, but Harry was hardly complaining. Cinder was the best and only friend Harry had and Harry loved the old cat to pieces.

And Harry would like to think that Cinder loved him back just as much.)

Harry giggles at the feeling of fur on his face and tries to push Cinder back.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work.

Cinder is about as long as Harry is when he lays down and he certainly weighs much, much more – the cat hardly goes anywhere he doesn't want to. "Cin _der_  – I have to finish my chores before I pet you!" Harry says between little tiny snorts, all of the bad feelings that had burrowed under his skin since this morning vanishing more and more every time the big, chubby cat pressed his face to Harry's.

It takes another ten minutes before Cinder stops his assault on Harry and settles himself at Harry's side – sprawled out on the grass with his tail idly curling around Harry's wrist. He lets Harry finish his chores with barely any more interruptions (halfway through prettying up the flowers, Cinder lunges at Harry to lick his entire face and some of his hair before settling down once more) and it's just when Harry's almost finished with the garden entirely that Cinder flops down completely on the grass and sighs like he has the hardest life in the entire world.

Harry pauses at that, hands stilling from where they're cupped around a flower, and tries not to think about the Dursleys.

(He fails.)

"Yeah," Harry says after a moment. "Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have Harry receiving his Hogwarts letter ... and he doesn't react in the way you'd think.


	3. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's gets a letter in the mail, addressed to him ... and his cupboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a canon rewrite and recharacterization. It will be featuring good Dumbledore, redeemed Snape, and not terribly evil Malfoys. It will make sense: just remember that I'm taking aspects from canon and either changing them completely (with development of course) or ignoring them. One of the major things that I've changed is Harry's acquaintance with Mrs. Figg. In this fic, although her house was terribly boring, it was also perhaps the only safe haven Harry had … I will be developing their relationship as the chapters go on.
> 
> This fic will feature a lot of world-building! Pureblood politics and magical culture will be heavily explored during this fic as well.
> 
> In this fic, Harry is very chaotic good (as in he does the right thing, even if it's against the rules) but he's also very Slytherin. I'll get into why and how later.

Days turn into weeks, turn into months and before Harry can really prepare for it, school is out and summer arrives.

Summer is the worst season for Harry and it's always been that way, since before he can remember. When he was younger, Dudley used to bully him terribly with the extra free time that summer allowed – chasing him around the neighborhood with his gang of friends. If they caught him (because that wasn't always a given, considering Dudley's girth), they would terrorize him, beat him up, but it was always their laughter that made Harry the most mad. Sure the hits _hurt_ , but Harry was used to the pain. The cruel taunts and laughter is what haunted Harry the most, what his stupid brain often revisited – even now. The laughter represented more than just his cousin and his friends bullying him, it painfully reminded him that he wasn't strong enough to stop it. That, combined with the real pain of the bruises they'd leave on Harry's body firmed his resolve to ensure that once he left the Dursleys for good, once he was _strong_ enough, he'd never let anyone ever make him feel like that again nor let anyone make anyone else feel like that again.

At eleven, Harry no longer has to worry about Dudley and his gang going 'Harry Hunting' – his deal with Piers ensures that Dudley has almost entirely forgotten he exists. Even without Dudley terrorizing him, summer still manages to be the worst season out of the four for Harry. Without school, without even that one buffer between him and the Dursleys means that he spends most – if not _all_ his time at their house. Aunt Petunia always has a three-page long chore list for him to complete, more than half of which are to be done outside. And Harry doesn't expect her to _care_ about his wellbeing – no, he'd learned _that_ lesson early on – but doing so many chores outside in the scorching hot weather with no water or food until he's finished is the absolute _worst_. Quite honestly, he'd rather be locked in his cupboard for a year than endure summer chores with the Dursleys.

And because _of course he does_ , Uncle Vernon gets even meaner the hotter it is outside, so Harry to grit his teeth and bear it when Uncle Vernon tears into him for being just like his drunk of a father and how he'll never amount to anything and how they took Harry in out of the goodness of their heart, but he repays them with freakishness. It's the same thing that he says all year round, just louder and more often.

Harry wishes that the words didn't still hurt.

He's long given up on escaping the Dursleys or even making them like him, but it never stops him from hoping, when he's bone-tired, laying in his cupboard after a long day of chores, that maybe it'll be be better tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that. Harry hates himself for those little moments, because it never, _ever_ does.

He should know after so many years that the Dursleys hate him and that it's never going to change and hoping that they will just makes it worse. Just makes it hurt more when they don't.

And so, it's not a stretch of the truth to say that Harry hates summer. Despises it even. Usually, Harry remembers to savor those last few days of school because while the school and the children may have been convinced by the Dursleys that he's a violent delinquent, it still provides him some freedom from his family, but this year he'd forgotten to do so, like an _idiot_.

And the summer starts off with a sour note, which sours even further when every glance at his cousin and his new toys remind him that their circumstances couldn't be more different. What makes it even worse is that Dudley doesn't even take _care_ of his toys. If Harry were given such expensive things, he'd cherish them – he'd probably even be afraid to play with them! In Dudley's hands, the toys are completely wasted because he destroys everything he touches.

It's moments like this – after witnessing Dudley destroy his television with a bat because he _can_ and because he wants a newer model – that Harry is grateful he got Piers to convince his cousin to stop bullying him. Harry can only imagine how that unbridled rage and entitlement would look when directed at himself rather than inanimate objects.

In the weeks since Dudley's birthday, he's broken nearly all of his new toys and even managed to half kill Mrs. Figg after her leg's mostly healed. Afraid for the one person who's ever been really, truly kind for him, Harry quietly plots Dudley's doom – but never actually does anything. The Dursleys have conditioned him well-enough that while he may be belligerent at any given moment, he knows that Dudley's well-being and happiness is ranked infinitely above Harry's. If he were to look at his cousin the wrong way while Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon were in the room would get him punished.

(That's why he does it when they _aren't_.)

Even with plotting his cousin's doom, his life during the summer is as it always was before. An unending list of chores which combined with the reality of living under his relatives' roof (and this alone caused some sort of hellish combination of rebellion and terror to rise within him, terror because he couldn't stop his stupid brain from associating every loud noise that Vernon, Petunia, or even Dudley made with him being in trouble – rebellion because he hated the terror and he tried to fight back anyway he could, even if it was only leaving the china just a little bit damp before putting it away) which made for an exhausting, if relentlessly boring time for Harry. He'd rather be back at school where the teachers were wary of him, the children bullied him, and he wasn't allowed to get any grades higher than Dudley's, lest he make his cousin look stupid in comparison.

But he wasn't at school and the only solace for Harry was that there was a routine. He knew what to do and when to do it, how to rebel quietly so it'd leave him satisfied and the Dursleys unaware, and he knew that every night locked in his cupboard was one night closer to school than the day before.

That's why, when in the middle of his meager breakfast, Vernon shouts at him to go and grab the mail – the most polite he'll ever get without company present – and he dodges Dudley's ridiculous and glorified stick he'll be using at his private school to go and get it, he's _floored_ when there's a letter in the pile for him too.

Green ink written on an envelope that has a fair amount of heft to it, addressed to him –

And his cupboard.

Harry inhales sharply at that, heart beating so loud he fancies that Dudley can probably hear it from where he's shoveling down the food Petunia woke Harry up early to make – something like horror rising up his throat like bile.

Someone knows about the cupboard.

This is … not good.

It's more shame and well-honed self-preservation instincts (though perhaps not honed well enough, given how much he taunts his relatives) have him shoving the letter in the waistband of Dudley's second-hand jeans rather than any attempt at a coherent plan. Then, knowing that he's taken much too long already to fetch the mail, Harry scurries back into the dining room, mail in hand.

From a lifetime of living with the Dursleys, Harry has learned how to present himself as demure and meek when he knows he's anything but. And so, when Harry gets ready to give the mail (sans a certain mysterious letter) to Vernon, he does It.

(He's never given a name to It, the ability to go absolutely cold and empty inside. It was like an out-of-body experience, where Harry acted just like the Dursleys wanted and where their taunts and insults didn't hurt nearly as much as they normally did.

It scares him, the fact that he's able to do this, hollow himself out like he's half-dead inside. Maybe that's why he's never given a name to It. Make no mistake, Harry hates living with the Dursleys and he hates Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley, Aunt Marge, but he'd rather hold onto that hatred and feel that and nothing else, than feel nothing at all.)

" _ **BOY**_!" Uncle Vernon shouts and normally, this is enough to make Harry flinch, never mind the fact that at ten (soon to be eleven), Harry knows that for the most part, Uncle Vernon is all-talk. But now, without emotion and feeling like he's staring at the scene from above, the yelling barely phases him beyond the detached amusement that accompanies the sight of Uncle Vernon with scrambled eggs stuck in his quivering moustache. "What took you so long to get the mail?!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon." Harry says, demure writ in every syllable and in the way Harry ducks his head to avoid eye-contact. He doesn't even have to raise his head to know that Petunia is watching him with an appraising eye, pleased that none of Harry's stubbornness or belligerence found its way into his response.

The only thing that's worse than doing _It_ and feeling hollow on the inside, is knowing how satisfied in Aunt Petunia's eyes at seeing him so meek and well-behaved. Even when he tries his hardest, Harry is never what Aunt Petunia wants unless he's doing _It_.

And that chips away at his icy armor just a bit, just enough for the almost overwhelming sadness and guilt to worm its way through. It's like mood whiplash: going from feeling nothing, to feeling what seems like every negative emotion he can possibly feel.

He quietly excuses himself to the kitchen, not daring to look at Aunt Petunia as he does so, hating that he has to do It to earn his Aunt's favor, but hating the fact that he can't even do it right even more. Aunt Petunia, of course, lets him go and Uncle Vernon doesn't care either way. The Dursleys were always glad to have Harry out of the way.

If they couldn't see Harry, then they could pretend like he didn't exist.

Harry takes his time walking to the kitchen, taking his plate with him and not wanting to run (even if he really wants to) because he knows that Aunt Petunia hates when he even _exists_ in her household and he doesn't want to push her, not after earning her favor in the way that he did.

Like his cupboard, the kitchen is his sanctuary. Aunt Petunia rarely, if ever, cooks leaving the task to Harry. Uncle Vernon and Dudley would rather have the food brought to them than step into the kitchen. In the kitchen, alone, while his relatives eat and while Aunt Petunia coos over Dudley, Harry allows himself to break down.

Not completely, not totally, but he allows himself to feel that omnipresent and heavy sadness that's been with him from the very first time he realized that the Dursleys hate him – that they'll always hate him and that this isn't normal way for families to behave.

(That it's Harry's fault for being so abnormal – a thought that haunts Harry because he wants to be good, but he doesn't want to change. He wants to be loved, but the Dursleys only like him when he's scared, meek, and makes himself as small as possible.)

The tears don't come – not while he's in the kitchen and Aunt Petunia could walk in at any moment, but he does allow himself to breathe deeply and close his eyes. To calm himself and to ward off the negative emotions that drive themselves like knives into his heart, he gives himself thirty seconds to imagine what it would be like if he had loving parents.

How they would hug him and kiss him on the forehead and even tell him they were proud of him! They would let Harry have his own room and maybe even a cat! He wouldn't have to cook every meal, but he could help if his parents wanted and they'd love Harry with every fiber of their being.

Harry opens his eyes slowly, fortified by the fantasy, as unrealistic as it was. He carefully lets go of the edge of the counter that he'd been gripping for dear life, trying to ignore how terrible it was to return to reality after imagining what his life could have been like as the feeling steadily returned to his extremities.

And after he can move his fingers without the dreadful numbness that had accompanied the movement a few minutes before, he finally feels composed enough to turn the tap on and begin washing the dishes.

* * *

Halfway through the dishes that had piled up during the preparation of breakfast, Aunt Petunia walks into the kitchen and places five dirty dishes right next to the sink like she's doing him a favor. She's pleased with him, Harry can tell by the way she surveys the dishes he's already done and only huffing in response, rather than doling out a derisive comment.

She stands behind Harry the entire time he washes those five dishes and though he _knows_ Aunt Petunia knows nothing about the letter that had been addressed to him, he can't stop feeling like the envelope is burning a hole through his clothing and that Aunt Petunia can somehow see it and that he'll be punished for keeping this from his Aunt and Uncle.

Luckily, he's able to hide the trembling of his fingers in the water he'd filled the sink with and he finishes quickly, eager to escape his Aunt's gaze. These dishes, too, are cleaned to Aunt Petunia's satisfaction and after she's finished examining them (looming over Harry's shoulder, another reminder that no matter how Harry copes with living with the Dursleys, no matter his petty disobedience, even with her slight form, Aunt Petunia would always be infinitely more powerful than he) she steps back and hands Harry a dish towel to wipe his wet hands with, which is perhaps the kindest thing she's ever done for him.

"I want you to weed the garden and water the plants today." Aunt Petunia says in her most nonsense voice. "You can drink from the hose if you're thirsty, but I don't want you coming inside until you're finished, do you hear me?"

Harry doesn't reply, waiting for her to continue the list of chores and is startled when Aunt Petunia clears her throat, obvious expecting a reply.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he says dutifully, staring down at the towel still in his hands.

She tsks at that, stays in the kitchen for just a second longer, then walks out and Harry doesn't know _why_ he flinches at that, but he _does_ and he doesn't relax until he can't hear his Aunt's footsteps. Then his hunched shoulders turn into a scowl and he wrings the dish towel between his hands.

 _Weed the garden … water the garden,_ Harry mocks wordlessly – forming the words but not saying them, not even under his breath.

Stupid garden.

Harry can't wait to be free of the Dursleys and their dumb chores and ridiculous rules. More than anything else, he hates the outside chores and he hates the garden the most. He hates tending to the garden and how the dirt crawls under his nails and how he never has a chance to wash his hands properly until the next time he has to do dishes because Aunt Petunia only allows him to use the bathroom twice a day and he's long since learned to only use those bathroom breaks for when he actually needs them.

But he also knows that even if he hates his chores, he knows he _must_ do them. In all of his years of living with the Dursleys and usurping their authority in the most minute (but satisfying) ways, he has _never_ , ever not done his chores.

Harry doesn't even know what they'd do if he'd just refused to do his chores. What _Aunt Petunia_ would do. What _Uncle Vernon_ would do.

It's the stuff of nightmares.

And so, even though Harry hates his chores and hates taking care of the garden, after he's finished putting the plates away (fully dry because although he normally leaves them just the slightest bit damp to get on Aunt Petunia's nerves without invoking her wrath, today he doesn't want to ruin her good mood) he heads outside as quietly as possible. Uncle Vernon and Dudley are no longer sitting at the table and from what he knows about them, Uncle Vernon is likely sitting in front of the tele and Dudley is probably out with friends.

Even so, he knows that drawing the smallest amount of attention to himself as possible is for the best – he knows that the Dursleys treat him the best when they forget he exists.

Harry even manages to open and close the front door with barely a sound – a testament to how often he's had to do so. He makes it to the garden easily and without interruption, not that he expected one. The neighbors have long since been convinced that Harry is no-good and a delinquent, not that Harry does much to dissuade them of that notion by not following any rule he deems to be unfair.

For a moment, he just stares at the garden, casting a shadow onto the prized flowers below.

The garden itself is beautiful and Harry allows himself to take pride in how bright and vibrant the flowers look, before that pride sours into rage and irritation.

To Harry, the garden is the most tangible difference between he and Dudley.

Well.

Not the garden _itself,_ but the fact that Aunt Petunia forces him to put blood, sweat, and tears (sometimes literally) into her stupid garden when she let Dudley do whatever he wanted, _whenever_ he wanted.

There was no use dwelling on it though. The Dursleys would always hate him for being different and he would always hate the Dursleys for hating him. Living in the now and focusing on what needed to be done that minute, in that _day_ is what saved Harry – made him good at surviving. He could contemplate his life and his dreams of a better childhood when he was safe in his cupboard.

For now –

He had a garden to weed and water.

* * *

Thirty minutes into tending to the garden, Harry becomes more and more aware of the letter tucked into the waistband of Dudley's ugly jeans. Ten minutes later and he can't help himself – he _has_ to look.

He waits five more minutes to ensure that none of the nosy neighbors are looking at him and that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon aren't spying on him before leaning over the farthest row of flowers, carefully taking out the letter.

It was addressed the same way it had been two hours earlier:

_Mr. H Potter_

_The Cupboard Under The Stairs_

But the words somehow seemed even more menacing than before. Like a taunt, written in emerald green ink. Someone _knew_ about his cupboard. Someone _knew_ and didn't even _care_.

But someone had written him a letter. That was a good sign, right? Harry exhales slowly, relaxing his grip on the envelope. He chances another quick look at his surroundings and when there's no one looking in his direction, he hunches over the letter further and tears it open.

Quickly, he reads the first few lines and the excitement turns to confusion turns to a bitter understanding. As fast as he'd opened the letter, he stuffs it back into the envelope and into the pocket of his jeans. The letter had left him with as many questions as it had answers and Harry was going to get to the bottom of this, even if it was the last thing he did.

But before he did that …

He had to finish his chores.

* * *

With the letter burning a hole in his pocket as motivation, Harry spends only twenty more minutes finishing the garden to Aunt Petunia's standards. With the garden weeded, watered, and neatly arranged, Harry makes himself as presentable as possible and quietly enters the house.

He finds his Aunt in the kitchen, preparing a snack for his Uncle. Harry gathers every bit of courage he has before he speaks, because he knows that if Aunt Petunia were to catch him in his lie, he'd be sent to the cupboard for life – but the risk was worth it.

"Aunt Petunia?" Harry says in the quiet space of the kitchen, nearly too quiet to be heard. At times, it's hard to contain himself and mold himself into what the Dursleys want (even when he does _It_ ) because inside he feels there's a storm inside of him with every emotion he feels so strongly, with every value he refuses to let the Durlseys break out of him. He acts like the Dursleys want, but it's just an act.

Sometimes, Harry thinks Aunt Petunia knows this.

That's why, when she turns around, Harry makes sure to duck his head slightly to temper his defiance – and to lie like his life depends on it. "Mrs. Figg asked me yesterday to come by to help her with her cats. She can't do it herself because her leg and hip bother her too much." The remark is pointed, because _Dudley_ was the reason Mrs. Figg was hurt and if Aunt Petunia said _no_ , Harry couldn't go over to help, some of the nosy neighbors may spread some gossip about Aunt Petunia and her lack of empathy.

Aunt Petunia takes a while to respond, but when Harry raises his head just a little bit, he can see that the remark lands the way he wants it to. Then, looking almost like she's in pain, Aunt Petunia snaps, " _Fine_. You can go." And because she hates him, while looking down at Harry imperiously she says, "Be back by six or _no dinner_."

Harry nods at that, not expecting any less. He backs out of the kitchen faster than he normally would, not wanting to run but also not wanting his Aunt to change her mind. Once he's out of her line of sight, Harry dashes out of the house and down the street, only one destination in mind.

* * *

Harry arrives at the house in question within minutes, not even out of breath. Though Dudley and his gang never chased him around the neighborhood anymore, he'd never lost his knack for running long distances in a very short while.

Still, he allows himself a few moments to compose himself, to check his pockets to ensure that the letter was still there (it was), and to firm up his determination. When that's all said and done, Harry raises a hand to knock. He does so, rapping his knuckles against the door loud enough that the person inside would be able to hear him.

And then he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

After what feels like forever (but probably wasn't more than three minutes), the door before him opens and he looks up at the woman, determined and eager to get the answers to his questions.

"Mrs. Figg?" Harry begins, as serious as can be. "We need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have more Mrs. Figg and Harry interactions and you'll find out why Harry immediately went to her after getting his letter. There will be more Cinder too! And some more character development of Mrs. Figg.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a review if you liked the fic! 
> 
> My tumblr and twitter are lunaerum, if you'd like to give me a follow.


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